The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (2 page)

“Straight.”

“Any hard limits?”

“Excuse me?”

“Things you can’t or won’t tolerate. Some people don’t like being slapped in the face, for example. Others faint at the sight of their own blood.”

Their own blood…

Owen felt sweat prickling under his arms. An image of himself, shackled in chains, his back crisscrossed with bloody lines from a single tail whip wielded by a tall woman in a black leather corset leaped full blown into his brain. “Um, I don’t really know, to be honest,” he hedged. “I guess I’m open to pretty much anything.”

Isabel nodded and scribbled something on the clipboard. “Okay. Any injuries we need to be aware of? Back. Knees. Surgeries.”

“No. I’m in good health. Fit as a fiddle.”

She continued the questioning, asking Owen for pretty personal details about his sex life and fantasies. He tried to answer as honestly as he could, hoping his answers passed muster. Finally she stood, smoothing her skirt. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

She turned on her heel and left the room. Owen could hear her ascending the staircase. He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, noticing the flowering vines climbing over the iron railings. Was he really up for this whole pro Domme scene?

What the hell. If she came back and told him to take a hike, so be it. He wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

Liar
.

Owen sat up expectantly at the sound of heels on the stairs. He waited for Isabel to reenter the room, hoping he’d passed whatever tests had been hidden in the interview questions.

But instead of Isabel, a tall, willowy woman with coppery hair and large gray-green eyes swept into the room. She wore a sexy black lace blouse that hugged perfect, round breasts and a long, narrow torso. As she approached, Owen saw flashes of shapely bare legs, visible along the slits of her ankle-length black skirt.

Owen stood as she came to a stop in front of him. She held out a slender hand and he took it. Her grip was strong and confident as she looked him in the eye. “
Bon jour
, Owen. I am Mistress Sylvie.” Her voice flowed like smooth honey, the accent decidedly French.

“
E
nchanté,
”
Owen replied in his best high school French.

Mistress Sylvie graced him with a smile and a slight nod. “You will follow me, please.”

Owen felt a sudden surge of adrenaline—part elation, part jitters. Mistress Sylvie led him up the stairs, passing one closed door and stopping at a second room, the door of which was ajar.

If he had expected a dungeon, he was disappointed. There were no whips or chains anywhere in sight. The room was more like an office, albeit an inviting one, with fresh flowers in a vase on the table beneath the window, and a comfortable-looking sofa and chairs set near a large desk made of pale blond wood.

Mistress Sylvie entered first and turned to face Owen. “Come inside,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

Owen did as he was told. Mistress Sylvie sat on one of the chairs, crossing her gorgeous, long legs. Owen stood uncertainly, waiting. “Take off your clothes and stand at attention. You may leave your underwear on, for now.”

For a moment Owen didn’t move. He wasn’t shy about his body, but he hadn't been expecting this. He’d been told today would only be for the interview, and then, if he was accepted, he would make an appointment for a full BDSM session.

“
Tout de suite.
I don’t have all day.” Mistress Sylvie lifted her eyebrows, tilting her head as she waited for him to obey.

You’ve come this far,
Owen reminded himself.

Having gone to the appointment straight from work, he was still wearing his suit. He removed his jacket and laid it on the sofa. Reaching for his tie, he pulled at the knot and slipped it over his head. Mistress Sylvie remained seated, watching his every move.

When he was stripped down to his boxers, she stood and moved toward him, her eyes glittering. “Hold out your arms on either side of your body and stay still while I examine you.” Owen did as he was told, aware his heart had picked up its pace.

“You will answer my questions promptly and honestly. Otherwise you are not to speak.”

“Okay,” Owen said.

Mistress Sylvie frowned. “When you speak to me, you will remember to address me as Mistress Sylvie. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie,” Owen replied, feeling a little foolish, but also very excited.

Mistress Sylvie wrapped her fingers around his right biceps and squeezed lightly. “Nice,” she commented with obvious approval. “You work out, I see.”

“I swim, Mistress Sylvie. And do some weights.”

“I did not ask you a question.”

Owen pressed his lips together, feeling his face heat. Mistress Sylvie began to walk in a slow circle around him, moving her hands over his shoulders, chest and back, squeezing and prodding him as if he were a horse. She drew her fingertips lightly along the inner part of his arms. Whether or not she intended it, her feather-light touch tickled when she reached his armpits and though he hadn’t meant to, Owen pulled slightly away.

“Stay still,” she commanded. “Have you no discipline?”

It was a question, but was it rhetorical, or did she want an answer? And what was the answer, when it came to that? He’d had this fantasy of submitting to a strong sexy woman a thousand times in one form or another, and now it was actually happening. But was discipline part of the equation?

“I will answer for you,” Mistress Sylvie said, standing directly in front of him. In her heels, she was nearly as tall as he was, and she leaned in close, so close he could have kissed her if he’d dared. She spoke softly, but her voice was hard. “You have no discipline. You are untrained and I’m not sure I should bother to take you on.”

“Please, Mistress Sylvie,” Owen interrupted, startled at the intensity of his need. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

Mistress Sylvie stepped back, her look skeptical. “Will you? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie.”

Her lips lifted in a small triumphant smile. “All right, then. Show me. Put your hands behind your head, locking your fingers at your neck. You will look straight ahead, no matter what I do to you. You will not move or resist me in any way. Can you do that, Owen?”

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie.” Owen moved his arms, relieved at the change in position. She drew her fingertips lightly over his biceps and underarms. Owen realized he was clenching his jaw in his effort to stay still. He hated being tickled, but at the same time found himself deeply aroused and excited by her actions and his position. Somehow he managed not to move, save for the rise and fall of his chest and the twitching of his throbbing cock.

“Much better,” Mistress Sylvie said softly, and Owen found himself smiling, pleased by her praise.

She moved behind him and he felt her cupping his ass cheeks through the cotton of his shorts. “Have you ever been spanked, Owen?”

“No, Mistress Sylvie.” Owen’s skin tingled in anticipation of the hard slap of her palm, but instead she moved again to stand in front of him. She pressed her hands against his chest, the palms flat against his nipples.

“Have you ever been tied down?”

“No, Mistress Sylvie.” There had been some bondage play with a girlfriend in college, but he’d been the one using the rope, not daring to admit his fantasies back then.

Mistress Sylvie slipped the tip of one finger beneath the elastic at the waist of his boxers. “Have you ever been whipped, Owen? Have you ever felt the sharp, sweet sting of the lash?”

Mistress Sylvie stared deep into Owen’s eyes, her lips lifting in a slow smile that made him forget how to breathe. “No, Mistress Sylvie,” he finally managed, though it only came out as a whisper. He wanted to look away but found himself unable to wrench his gaze from hers. He could feel her power, and his own powerlessness to resist it.

“Do you like pain, Owen? Erotic pain?”

“I don’t really know, Mistress Sylvie,” he answered honestly, though his cock was hard as steel. “I want to find out. I know that for sure. I—think about it. I fantasize about it.”

“Tell me more,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. “Tell me your darkest fantasy. Hold nothing back.”

Owen’s heart lurched into overdrive. “I’ve never told anyone—”

“But you will tell me,” she interrupted. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and he nodded slowly in agreement.

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie. I will tell you.”

“Go on,” she said, her voice a sultry purr. She took a step back, looking pointedly at his crotch. Owen’s cock was pulsing. His balls ached and his heart was galloping like a racehorse in his chest.

“I’m standing in a room,” he began nervously. “I’m naked and my arms are bound over my head, cuffed into chains that hang from the ceiling.” Owen closed his eyes, letting the well-worn movie spool on its mental reel. Only now, instead of a faceless woman standing behind him, he saw Mistress Sylvie, a long, cruel whip in her hand. “There’s a woman,” he continued, his eyes still closed. “She’s got a whip. A single tail.” Though he felt his face heating, Owen forced himself to continue. “She uses it. On me. My back, my ass. She’s relentless, whipping me until I beg for mercy, but she shows none. She strikes me over and over. She doesn’t stop until—until I…” Owen trailed off, embarrassed. Sweat had beaded above his lips and pricked at his arm pits.

“Until you come,” Mistress Sylvie supplied.

Owen opened his eyes in surprise, his face scalding, though his cock felt like it was going to explode if she so much as touched him. “Yes,” he admitted. “How did you know?”

“How would I not know?” She smiled, her eyes sparking with a fire that turned them to pure emerald green. She placed her hand over his erection and Owen groaned. “I know because we are two sides of a coin, Owen. It’s what I want, but more importantly, it’s what you
need
. Am I correct?”

Owen’s mouth had gone dry. He was at once relieved and disappointed when she took her hand from his shorts and stepped back. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. If this was just the interview, what in god’s name were the sessions going to be like?

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie,” he finally managed, the words pulled from a hidden place that was filled with yearning. “It’s what I need.”

Chapter 2

Owen pressed the doorbell, giving his name when asked through the intercom speaker. The door was once again opened by Isabel, dressed in another tailored suit. This one had a plunging neckline, and no evidence of a blouse beneath the jacket. Owen tried not to stare at the woman’s cleavage, but failed.

“Good afternoon,” she said, a small smile lifting one corner of her mouth. She stepped back, allowing Owen to enter. “Your session is for one hour.” She looked pointedly at the silver tray that was set on a high narrow table just inside the door. Owen had been advised he was to pay in advance for the time booked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope that contained the agreed-upon fee, dropping it onto the tray.

He followed Isabel up the stairs, his heart already beginning a thump of anticipation. He’d changed before he left the office, and felt more comfortable in jeans and a pale gray button-down shirt of light Indian cotton, the sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Isabel knocked softly against the door at the top of the stairs and stepped back. “Come in,” Mistress Sylvie said from the other side of the door.

Isabel turned the knob and pushed the door open. She nodded toward Owen and as he walked into the room, she pulled the door closed.

The space was much larger than the office he’d been in the week before. This room was clearly where Mistress Sylvie conducted her sessions. The walls were the same cream color as the office, the floors of dark, polished hardwood. But there the similarities stopped.

BDSM equipment lined one wall, including a whipping post, a St. Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench and a bondage table. Along a second wall was a large rack containing all manner of whips, floggers, crops and canes. Chains hung from thick beams that bisected the ceiling, and a table set beneath a curtained window had several sets of leather and metal cuffs, along with clips, fishing weights, and all sorts of wicked-looking clamps, and other toys Owen had no name for. All this Owen absorbed in an instant, before his eye was drawn to Mistress Sylvie.

She looked even more striking than the first time he’d seen her, her long, copper hair waving over her shoulders, her sea-green eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes, her lips painted ruby red. She was again wearing black, but this time it was leather, a form-fitting bustier that emphasized the curve of her breasts, and low-riding pants that looked as if they’d been painted onto her long, shapely legs. A strip of smooth skin was exposed just above her hips.

She stood in front of a square of thick carpet in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, her stiletto heels planted wide. “Come in, Owen. I want you to strip naked and kneel here on the carpet. Every time you come to me, you will do that at once, without being told. You may leave your clothes on that table.” She pointed toward a small table that stood just inside the door. Her tone was matter-of-fact and she was clearly used to being obeyed.

Owen hesitated, though he knew he was expected to be naked for the session. Mistress Sylvie lifted one eyebrow and her eyes widened slightly, her expression one of barely contained patience. Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, Owen forced himself past his initial hesitation and unbuttoned his shirt, relieved his fingers were steady.

He pulled off his shirt and reached for his belt buckle, while slipping out of his loafers at the same time. When he was completely naked he piled his clothing on the table and faced Mistress Sylvie, fighting a sudden urge to cover his genitals.

She pointed toward the square of carpet and Owen moved toward it, lowering himself to his knees, not sure what to do with his hands. As if reading his mind, Mistress Sylvie ordered, “Hands behind your back.”

Owen obeyed, feeling very vulnerable at this imposing woman’s feet. He wasn’t sure where to look either. Was it a sign of disrespect to look directly at her while she spoke? Or was he expected to? What were the rules? What was the protocol? Did it even matter since all this was on his dime?